


on a bed where the moon has been sweating

by synecdochic



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Community: shirakawablvd, F/M, Imported, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shinji really likes to watch girls when they're getting off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on a bed where the moon has been sweating

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally [posted](https://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/453733.html) 2011-03-16.)
> 
> A fill for a [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/shirakawablvd/1014.html?thread=829942#t829942) on shirakawablvd. Title from Leonard Cohen's [Take This Waltz](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UUtgjjj75_Q), based on Federico García Lorca's "Little Viennese Waltz".

If Mitsuru had thought about it ahead of time -- which she hadn't -- she would have imagined she'd wind up with Akihiko. He had always been more her style: more refined, more put-together, more cultured. (More willing to follow her lead; more willing to let her be the one in control.) But when all's said and done, it's Shinji's bed she finds herself in, naked and sprawling, with Shinji kneeling between her legs and looking down upon her. He still has his house pants on. His hands are on her hips, thumbs stroking the curve of her hipbones absently, like he doesn't even know he's doing it. He's looking down upon her as though she were a work of art.

She pushes herself up on her elbows, reveling in the way her hair spills around her shoulders and down to cover her breasts, feeling like she is somehow made sacred by his devotions to her. "Clothes off, Aragaki," she says, proud of herself for how cool and even her voice turns out to be even through lips that are swollen and heavy with the weight of his kisses. She keeps her voice down -- the last thing they need is one of the others knocking on the door to see what's wrong -- but she reaches for the same note she had always used when she was at a distance, using Penthesilea's gifts to scout the territory for her brave and beautiful boys, knowing that long months of fighting had instilled instant obedience to her words when spoken in that voice of command. "I'm not going to be the only one naked here."

But Shinji only smiles. The expression sits oddly on his face; it's a face that doesn't seem accustomed to the lighter emotions anymore -- not after the years he'd spent away from them, becoming a person she doesn't quite recognize anymore -- but in that smile, she sees the boy she'd once known, bold and brash and joyful, and her heart sings to see it again. "Not yet," he says, his voice rough from years of smoking and other abuses and deep with his arousal; his eyes devour her lines and curves. If he were anyone else, if _they_ were anyone else, she'd be dying of shame (too exposed too open too vulnerable). But this is Shinji, and the way he's looking at her holds nothing more and nothing less than reverence. "I want to look at you first."

She frowns. She is not experienced with men or with boys (a few awkward fumblings here and there, a few times when she might have wanted to go further but never dared to propose it for fear of being anything other than the _good girl_ ) but she _has_ done reading (and not just Takeba's shoujo manga) and there's always the internet to ask, and she's pretty sure that right about now, Shinji should be falling upon her naked (willing) body and devouring her. And devouring her he is, but it's with his eyes and nothing more; she can feel the weight of his gaze trace the lines of her collarbones, linger at the hollow of her throat, slip down to the curve of her breast (his smile deepens at that, just a hint at the corners, wry and understated, and she's not sure why) and take its time meandering down the flat, muscled planes of her belly. Everywhere he looks leaves a line of fire and arousal behind him.

By the time his eyes reach the soft nest of curls between her legs, her hips would be rocking off the bed, straining to meet a touch that isn't physical at all, were it not for his hands holding her in place. The contrast between the roughness of his skin and the tenderness of the idle caress of his thumbs, between the strength with which he holds her immobile and the gentleness with which he strokes her skin, sets up a burning in the pit of her stomach, pulling her, tugging her, leaving her elbows and knees unsteady and irregular. Her heart feels like it's skipping every other beat. She is so aroused she feels like he's going to spontaneously combust, and he hasn't even done anything but _look_ at her yet.

She loves and despises this feeling, all at once.

She fumbles for solid ground, reaches for _command_ and _composure_ and -- always, eternally -- _Kirijo_. "Well, if you aren't going to touch me, I'll just --"

"Shh," Shinji says, or maybe it's "tch", or maybe it's just a breath exhaled. "I'll let you know when I'm done looking."

Mitsuru reaches out one hand for him, trails her fingers along the waistband of his house pants and watches his stomach muscles flutter and leap as she goes. "I want --"

He moves like a Shadow when he wants to -- swift and silent and deadly -- and before she realizes he's moving at all, she is pressed out across the bed with Shinji's weight spread over her and Shinji's hands (so large, so rough, so gentle) wrapped around her wrists, pulling her arms high over her head and pinning them down. "I know what you want," he rasps, rubbing his cheek against hers, nuzzling at her hair and nipping lightly at her earlobe. "And I'll give it to you. But first, I get what _I_ want."

That statement -- flat and confident, like he knows there's no other way the world could possibly be -- sends a frisson of unease through her, but she buries it behind her eternal mask, behind her knowledge that whatever else might have changed in the years they were apart, this is still _Shinji_ , and he would never do anything to hurt her. She realizes even through her uncertainty her hips are pushing up against his weight, tiny circles the furthest extent of how far she can move, her body instinctively seeking out the length and hardness she can feel waiting for her between his legs. Dammit, if he would only --

"Shh," Shinji says again, against her neck, more softly this time, and it's the closest she can imagine his voice ever being to tender. He shifts his weight slightly, transfering his grip on her wrists into a single hand. His other hand glides down her arm, past her elbow, along her bicep, until he turns and leans back just enough to give himself room to stroke the back of his hand over her collarbone. "Told you," he says absently, his eyes following the path of his hand along her alabaster skin with rapt fascination, "I want to look at you first."

The squirming heat is back in the pit of her stomach, and she catches herself whimpering softly, her breath coming hard and fast. Shinji slides to one side, stretching out beside her, and she mourns the loss of his weight against her, his skin against hers, even as she draws one deep shuddering breath. His grip on her wrists slackens as he moves, enough so the growing burn in her shoulders eases, enough so she could free herself if she wanted. Something makes her stop before she can, though. Maybe it's the way Shinji is looking at her. Maybe it's just the knowledge that she doesn't _have_ to.

She can feel his erection pressing into her thigh underneath his house pants, thick and heavy and straining, but he doesn't rock against her at all. There's a damp patch on the fabric, spreading further and further.

"Aragaki," Mitsuru tries, through lips that are dryer than they should be, "I --"

His head comes up and he meets her eyes. His own are burning. "I know it's hard for you," he says, so quietly she has to strain to hear him despite being so close she can feel his breath. "Not the part about letting someone else be in charge for once, although that too. It's being _seen_ you have a problem with, isn't it, sweetheart?"

"I --" she says again. Then stops.

"Being seen. Being watched. Being known." Shinji draws a thumb down the line between her breasts, circles underneath one of them so lightly she can feel the gooseflesh rising. "It's what you're terrified of. And desperate for. Someone to look behind that mask of Kirijo Mitsuru you wear and see the woman underneath."

He's ridiculous. ...He's _right_. She has no idea what to do with this information. And her body is so desperately aroused it _hurts_.

"Fortunately for you," Shinji says -- fingertips rounding the curve of her breast, feathering over her nipple (which hardens even more at his passage) and across to the other before tracing loops and swirls across her abdominal muscles -- "I love looking at beautiful women. I love watching them when they're ready for me -- the flush _here_ \-- the quiver _here_ \--" He suits touch to words: a stroke of her upper chest where she can feel the heat creeping steadily upwards, a flutter against the bottom of her ribs where her breath is heaving.

Then those fingers creep lower, skim through the curls of her _mons veneris_ , circle around her labia and slide between her folds. "And I really, _really_ love this." 

She can feel herself growing impossibly even wetter as he strokes her, and she bites her lip and turns her head (if he can't see her face he won't _know_ ) and strains against the bed to push against his fingers, wanting more, wanting _him_ , in her and around her and atop her. Pride be damned: she _wants_ , wants him to make her feel like the way she feels when she touches herself with the door locked and the lights out. She wants to take and take and _take_ , wants him to --

"Shhh," Shinji says, and she realizes she's whimpering again, that her lips are moving without voice behind them: _yes, please, more_. "It's all right. I've got you."

His fingers, wet with her, slide up to her clit. She remembers, half a second before it might have become a problem, the presence of the other boys on the floor; she can't let them know that she is here, that they're doing this, and so she bites back the louder whimper that wants to escape from her throat. Even now, he doesn't touch her the way she wants to be touched (is begging to be touched), just skims his fingertips over her so lightly that it makes one muscle in her thigh leap without her command. "How many times can you go?" he asks her.

She can't quite manage to make his words make sense. Not when he's teasing her like this, the faintest of pressures when what she wants is for him to _touch_ , take, give. "What do you --"

Shinji laughs, soundlessly, his shoulders quivering where they're pressed against her. "Before you get tired, or it's too much, or you have to stop. Some girls it's once, and they're so sensitive they have to stop for half an hour and rest. Some girls can just keep going and going." He slides his thumb up and down along the outside of her labia, his fingertips still resting against her clit. It feels like a tender and absent gesture, like his fingers can't get enough of touching her even though his mind isn't telling him to do it. "Which one are you?"

Mitsuru supposes she should be offended by references to the fact that Shinji has had other women in his bed, should be offended by the idea he might be comparing her to another who may have been here at another time. She can't quite bring herself to mind. The way his hands are worshipping her tells her he knows what he's doing from the benefit of long experience, and she has always respected competence in all its forms. She reaches for her nearly-forgotten composure, trying to silence the thrumming heartbeat in her blood telling her to move, to push, to rock against his hand and work herself on his fingers. Takes a deep breath. She can't quite believe he wants to have a conversation _now_ , but she will not shame herself by sounding too eager, nor will she let her voice falter no matter how much she feels she should be ashamed of what she's about to say. "I don't -- I've never found -- When I ... touch myself, I always feel like I could, again, until ..."

Her cheeks are burning, she knows, and she can't tell whether it's from confessing that she _does_ touch herself or confessing that she's wanton enough to keep going and going (until her fingers are puckered with her own wetness, until her clit is throbbing and sore, until her breasts are heavy and hot and her nipples ache, until the inner walls of her quim are red and swollen) and still can't get enough. Or maybe it's from saying these things to him at all, and she turns her face away from him and closes her eyes, waiting for him to laugh at her, waiting for him to say the things that she's heard boys say to or about girls who are willing to admit to an interest in sex: _slut, whore --_

And he does laugh. But it isn't scornful or denigrating at all, and when she dares to open her eyes and turn her head, Shinji is smiling, and Shinji's true smile is like sunshine on warm rock after a month of rain, a treasure guarded jealously and only set free from time to time. "I am the luckiest man alive right now," he breathes, burying his face against her neck and inhaling deeply against her hair. While she's still trying to figure out _how she is supposed to react to that_ , he lets go of her wrists with his other hand, pushes himself up on an elbow (so that he can see her better?) and lets his other wrist _twist_.

All of his tenderness has fled now, and he knows just how to touch her, hard and fast and a little rough, the pads of his fingers working on her clit-hood and just the faintest scrape of fingernail against her clit itself. It isn't at all like the way she touches herself; it's _more_ , harder, faster, and she gasps and closes her eyes and reaches for him --

He stops. The bastard, the absolute _bastard_ , stops. Her eyes fly open just in time to see the smirk on his face as he slides his hand back up her arms and pins her wrists again. "Tch," he says, soft and scolding. "I didn't say you could move." 

She lets dignity fly to the wind and plants her heels against the bed, pushing upward, rocking her hips in short, sharp thrusts until his fingers twitch without his conscious control, seeking that _feeling_ again. It isn't the same, but it's close. "Dammit, Aragaki --"

He folds both her wrists in his oversized hand, and she can feel their slender bones stretched beneath her skin, his grasp. "I told you," he says. "I'll give you what you want. But I get what I want first. And what I want is to see you come so hard you can't _breathe_."

His fingers dip down into her wetness, slide against her, teasing her opening, and then return to her clit just when she's about to push up against him and force them inside of her. She feels so open, here under his eyes and his hands, and the feeling is terrifying and exhilirating all at once. _Being seen_ , he'd said. _Being known._ And he does seem to know her, or at least know her body and how to make it sing for him: she can feel her climax nearing as his fingers work over her, and she holds her breath, reaching, _wanting_ \--

"Like that," Shinji is murmurring, "just like that, yeah, come on, come for me," and she _does_ , so hard that her vision whites out around the edges and she can feel her heart skipping a beat. In the back of her mind, Penthesilea roars and _reaches_ , and she can feel Castor holding out a metaphorical hand to catch her, and Shinji's eyes are fixed on her face. For the first time in years, she has no idea what is showing there, but whatever it is, he seems satisfied. More than satisfied. He seems exultant.

His fingers still for a moment, just long enough that she thinks he might have gotten what he wants from her, might be ready to roll on top of her and slide inside of her the way she wants, _wants_ him to, wants him to set this encounter back onto an even keel (both of them giving, both of them getting, both and neither in control, instead of this strange power dynamic where he is the supplicant worshipping her body but she is the one who can do nothing but lie there and be worshipped). Then his smile deepens. "God, yeah," he says. "You are so fucking beautiful when you come, I could fucking watch you for hours," and his fingertips skim over her clit again and she knows that it might not be hours but it's going to be a long damn time.

She is somewhere between her fifth and sixth climaxes, each one more powerful than the last, each one racking her body so strongly that the last one hasn't quite finished yet, her pleasure radiating outward until her muscles are so taut they feel as though they are going to snap any second, when she realizes he's speaking again. Possibly has been for a long time. "--like this, used to sit in class and think about laying you out on the teacher's desk and fucking you with my tongue until you were screaming, used to think about how your cunt would feel around my fingers while I did this --" His fingers are inside of her by now, filling her so deliciously, each twist of his wrist driving his fingertips against the spot inside of her she can find sometimes when she's lucky enough, the spot that makes her shiver and buck and cry out.

Somehow he has shifted position without her noticing, until he's kneeling between her legs. He must have let her wrists go a long time ago, because her hands are fisted in the covers of his futon and her fingers are cramped like she's been holding on forever. Shinji works the fingers of his right hand against _that spot_ , three fingers inside her and moving in three dimensions, back and forth, in and out, around and _around_. Then he pushes them in again and holds them there, and he slides the thumb of his other hand down to where his fingers are stretching her -- her _cunt_ (the word delicious and dirty even inside her own mind, the sense-feel of it hot and heavy and thick the way his fingers are hot and heavy and thick inside her) -- and swipes it through the wetness pouring down on his hands before returning it to her clit, working both hands in practiced syncopation, and she throws back her head and _howls_ as her body unfolds for him and he catches her and holds her and drives her back again and again until she feels like each of her seams is coming undone, like she's flying apart and coming together and coming home and being reborn --

When she can focus again, she realizes he's stretched out beside her again, his hands and arms and chest sticky with her and with his sweat, carding one hand through her hair (so tangled and sweat-slick she will need hours to make it presentable again) while the other lies cupped protectively over her mons, fingertips skimming softly over her entrance (swollen, sore, satisfied) but not venturing further. The weight of him there is comforting; she feels empty without him. The expression on his face is beatific. He looks like _he's_ the one who has just spent an hour straight (at least) half an inch from climax and being spurred towards another. "Beautiful," he is saying, "so beautiful, so incredible, so gorgeous and perfect and real --"

She licks her lips. Her mouth feels like a desert; her throat feels like razors, and she's painfully aware she was shouting loudly enough that everyone in the dorm must know what they've been doing in here. (Please, she prays to a God she hasn't been sure of since she was six years old, _please_ let them all have decided to go to the movie they'd been discussing; please let the dorm be empty of anyone who might have heard.) "Aragaki --" she starts, then falls silent. She has no earthly clue what she could possibly say. She wants to say _something_. She wants him to know.

But he's known everything else she hasn't been able to say so far, and this is no different. His lips round with the truest smile she's ever seen from him. "Yeah, I know," he says, and she believes that he does. Her mind feels open, vast, empty. It's the first time in over a decade she can remember not feeling the subtle hiss and snap of should-have, should-do, should-be running in an endless loop in the back of her mind so softly she almost never realizes it's there at all. For the first time in over a decade, she feels unburdened. Clean.

_This is how we should be_ , Penthesilea whispers. In the silence, the familiar voice echoes like a footstep in an uncarpeted hallway. She has never heard Penthesilea's voice so clearly before. _He is good for us. He will teach us to let go._

Shinji's thumb strokes over one of her eyebrows. She wouldn't have imagined that simple gesture being so comforting. His skin smells like metal and lightning and fine damp earth, and it takes her a minute to realize she is smelling herself on him. "You want a drink? I think I've got an unopened bottle of water around here somewhere."

Mitsuru licks her lips again and summons the strength to nod. A sudden chill settles over her when he rolls away and hangs off the edge of the futon to rummage underneath it, coming up with a bottle of water in his hand; the air currents raised by his passage make goosebumps rise on her sweat-damp skin. He comes back before she can start shivering, and slides one warm and steady hand behind her neck to help her sit up, a level of solicitousness she is almost coming to expect from him here, now, like this. He uncaps the bottle and hands it to her; she takes it with both hands, nearly fumbles it on the way to her mouth. 

She feels _wrecked_. The tiny smug smile rounding the edges of his lips tells her he knows it, too. Usually she'd bluff and bluster and snap at him for what she would perceive as a taunt, but right now, it only looks like the self-congratulation of a job well done. His hand stays on the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking the nubs of her spine. She's glad for it, for the connection there. Being thrown back into her own body with no point of contact with him would have been jarring. This way, it's like he's still there, still waiting for her, content to give her a moment to catch her breath.

Which reminds her. She sets the bottle of water down on his nightstand -- nearly missing the edge and dropping it to the floor, but she catches it just in time -- and turns back to him. "I -- will you let me --" She can't find the words, even now, but her eyes trail down to where his length is still hidden away by his clothing. She puts her hand on his thigh, feeling the heat rising from him even through the thin cotton he's still wearing, and lets that hand slide upward, daring --

Only to find a sticky patch of dampness there, and Shinji averts his eyes and bites his lip a little, suddenly awkward. "Gonna have to give me a few minutes there, princess." She frowns a little, confused, and the tips of his ears start to pinken. It's the most adorable thing she's ever seen. "I told you," he says, the faintest hint of defensiveness starting to creep into his voice. "I _really_ like doing that."

It takes her a second to realize what he means, and once he does, she's made breathless by the implications: the thrill of watching her take her pleasure, of knowing it was his hands and his fingers and (she thinks she remembers) his mouth and tongue to bring her to such heights, was enough to bring him to climax without her even touching him. The thought makes her stomach flutter, leaves her feeling rounded and aroused and powerful, makes her want to clench her muscles against the phantom weight of his touch remembered. "Oh," she says, softly, and she can hear her voice full of wonder. Then, hesitantly, but if she can want to _do_ it she can make herself _say_ it: "Take off your pants anyway. I want to see you. I want to touch _you_."

His eyes rise again, seek hers to study her face, and whatever he finds there makes him smile again, so like and so unlike the face he presents to the world. There's a lesson in that. "Yeah, okay," he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world for him to accede to her demand. A moment of wiggling, a casual swipe with the fabric over his skin to clean the worst of the mess he has -- they have -- made, and Shinji balls up his pants and tosses them in the vague direction of his clothes hamper. (He misses, but the presence of other clothing scattered on the floor says he misses more often than he hits and doesn't really care enough to rectify the failure more often than not.) 

Her eyes are drawn to his nudity; his is the first phallus she has ever seen in anything other than anatomical illustration or arthouse photography, and although she has always thought those funny-looking before, Shinji's is beautiful: long and thick even while unerect, curving slightly to the left, nestled in its wreath of curls. She finds her hand reaching out for it without conscious volition and stops herself just before she can touch; she's close enough that her palm can feel his body heat reflecting up towards her, and beneath her almost-touch, she can see him twitch and begin to fill. 

"May I?" she asks, rapt with fascination, and Shinji laughs softly and takes her chin in one hand, turning her to face him.

"Sweetheart," he says, every word ringing with utter conviction as his eyes devour her, "you can do anything you damn well want with me," and the thought of such sweeping permission to make free with his body the way he has with hers makes her toes start to curl.

_Yes,_ Penthesilea whispers to her, voice growing stronger with every word. _Yes, like this. Let go. I will be there to catch you if he can not._

Mitsuru doesn't think that will be a problem. Shinji leans in to kiss her, lazy and assured, and she curls her tongue around his and curls her hand around his phallus, velvet skin over hardening steel. He breathes out, sharply, as her fingers stroke him curiously, learning the shape and the heft of him beneath them, and she thinks of this inside her and can _feel_ herself grow wetter at the thought.

_Yes,_ Penthesilea says again. Her voice is clear and calm, ringing like a bell inside Mitsuru's thoughts. She feels like she does when Penthesilea envelops her, as powerful as ancient goddesses, except instead of Penthesilea's ice and cold all she can feel is heat and warmth. _He can see us. He can know us._

Shinji makes a noise of soft longing against her tongue and shifts his weight to bear her down against the futon again. The seconds ticking by reach their invisible boundary; the room plunges into black and green, and the ever-present hum of electronics around them stutters into silence. She takes a second to curse the loss of light, but it's all right. The moon is waxing nearly full, and its light may be sickly green, but it's enough for her to see him by. It will have to do.


End file.
